


Klutz

by rabidbinbadger



Series: Ice Ice Baby [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Stripper Castiel, Stripper Dean, Undercover, Wank Adjacent, and cas ruining everything, and i don't mean the sexy kind, dean being a little bitch, hold it together, i am not judging, i'm judging a little bit, it's more wank adjacent, jfc cas, maybe you do, sam being traumatised beyond repair, sorry to disappoint guys, there is no sexy wanking in this fic, unless you count bitching about stuff as sexy, wank, well it's not proper wank, what is wrong with you?, yeah okay i'm tagging this fic as
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-17
Updated: 2016-01-17
Packaged: 2018-05-14 10:03:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5739508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rabidbinbadger/pseuds/rabidbinbadger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Another day, another Cas-tastrophe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Klutz

“You want me to _WHAT?”_ Dean squeaks, then asks again in slightly more grossly exaggeratedly manly fashion.

“It’s for a _case,_ Dean!” Sam says, like that’s the end of the matter.

“Then you do it!”

“I don’t have the right, y’know, build.”

Dean bursts out laughing.

“You’re built like some sort of freaky Greek marble man-statue. That’s the perfect physique for a stripper!” There’s a slight pause, and then he blusters. “Probably, I mean, I guess, ‘cause I don’t know. Obviously.”

“Uh-huh.” Sam agrees in that tone that suggests he really doesn’t agree at all.

Dean looks at him expectantly, and Sam realises he still needs an excuse as to why Dean should be the one going undercover as a stripper, and not him.

“That’s exactly the problem – I’m _too_ bulky, not all, um, agile and light on my feet like you. I couldn’t do all the pole stuff. And uh, you’ve seen more strippers than I have so, um you’d know what to do whereas I’d just be standing there like, um TADAA now I’m naked here’s my ass.”

“I haven’t seen any _male_ strippers.” Dean says, slowly.

“Yeah, but, um, it’s all the same really, isn’t it. Y’know.Male ones and female ones.”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“Well I’m sure it is. Anyway, I’ve already called them and asked if I can interview as a bouncer, so, yeah. I’ve got a role.”

“Why can’t I be a bouncer?”

“Remember at that fitness club where they hired me as the instructor and you as the chef?”

“Yeah.” Dean agrees, gruffly.

“That’s why.”

Dean’s pout could launch a thousand ships, in the other direction, way away from him.

“What about Cas?” He asks, while still pouting. Which makes him look like a duck. Or Zoolander. Or a Zoolander-duck hybrid. Duckric Zoogander.

“What about him?” Sam doesn’t see what Cas has to do with any of what they’re discussing.

“What’re you forcing _him_ to go undercover as?”

“Ummmmmm.” Sam hadn’t thought they were taking him along, okay, to be honest. I mean, they’d been on a hunt with him like, what, a week ago? That generally means they forget about him for another month or so and only call him when one or both of them is about to die a horrible painful death. Nothing personal, they both like the guy, he’s great. That’s just, y’know. The way it works?

But apparently not this time, because now Dean has his stubborn face on.

“I’ll do it if Cas does.”

Sam can’t help the out-loud guffaw that escapes him at that. Dean gives him a stern look that’s clearly supposed to make him stop, but which does nothing of the sort.

Eventually Sam gets himself together enough to remember how to use words.

“You think that,” he chokes out, “You think that _Cas_ would be able to pass for a stripper?”

“If I’m being a stripper, Cas is being a stripper too.”

“He’ll blow our cover.”

“Chicks dig the whole dark, mysterious, brooding thing.”

Sam decides that now is maybe not the best time to tell Dean that it isn’t chicks that he (and possibly Cas) will be dancing for.

“I guess we could ask him…”

 

*

 

Sam bustles into the war room, whistling merrily to himself.

And then he stops dead, nearly drops his duffle and tries not to swallow his tongue.

There are some things you do not need to know about your brother. There are some things you do not need to see your brother doing. There are some things that oh god please stop that no amount of alcohol is gonna kill all the brain cells that image is merrily imprinting itself on.

He spins around, to see Cas sitting by the table.

“What the fuck?” Sam asks.

 Cas tears his gaze away from Dean, slack jawed from shock or confusion or Sam doesn’t want to fucking know what frankly.

“Je-Dean?” Cas clarifies with a weird little stutter, as if there’d be anything else Sam could possibly be referring to. Sam nods, horrified, tries to keep his gaze fixed firmly on Cas’s face and nowhere at all else in the room. “I believe the term he used was, ‘owning it’. He had his clothes on at that point, though. I don’t think he realises I’m still here.”

Sam – too frazzled to ask _why_ Cas is still here – nods, checks his watch. 10.23am. That’s late enough to start drinking, right? Right?

Please?

He runs to the kitchen and grabs a beer, downs half of it in one go, grabs another one and retreats far enough away that he can’t hear the sound of flesh smacking on wood.

Cas still doesn’t leave. If he’s going to be stripping on stage, it wouldn’t hurt to be more familiar with, y’know. All of that.

Although from what he knows he’s pretty sure strippers don’t actually go all the way down to bare flesh, they at least leave something to the imagination. Which Dean is not doing. He’s stark, bollock naked, doing some complicated but, admittedly, aesthetically pleasing gymnastic manoeuvre around the poles and banister of the second level of the war room.

He’s completely clean shaven all over, legs, back, crack and sack etc, and Cas wonders whether that’s a personal preference – he always shaves his beard off after all – or whether it’s in preparation for the role.  He’ll have to ask when he gets a chance, but this routine looks pretty intense, he doesn’t want to distract Dean mid-flow and cause him to hurt himself.

Dean does a handstand on the banister, dismounts with a flourish.

Cas isn’t sure whether he should applaud, figures it’s probably rude not to.

Dean flushes bright red from head to toe, slaps his hands over his crotch a little too vigorously and winces.

“I didn’t – you weren’t.”

He gives an undignified little yelp and runs back to his room, ass jiggling as he goes.

 

*

 

“We’re going undercover at a GAY CLUB?”

Ah, so Dean’s noticed then. Oops.

“Um, yeah. Sorry. Didn’t I say?”

“NO!”

“Well, it’s not really that different, is it?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Don’t look at me like that, I have nothing against gay guys, I just don’t want them staring at my junk!”

It’s such a familiarly idiotic argument – one you hear bigots on the tv say all the time – that Sam replies by rote.

“Not all gay guys are obsessed with looking at your cock.”

Dean gawps at him.

“We’re in a _strip club,_ and I am a _stripper._ What else are they here to look at?!”

Ah, yeah. Okay. Dean might have a point there. Sam scrubs his hands through his hair.

“Look, it’s no different—”

“Yes it is!”

“What’s so bad about it?”

“Um, I’m going to have people staring at my ass all night, and I’m not going to get laid at the end of it?”

Yeah, right. Sam thinks. My bisexual (closeted) brother who fucking loves fucking isn’t going to take the opportunity to bask suspicion free in all this male attention and definitely isn’t going to find someone to have sex with by the end of the night. Yeah, Dean. Sure.

“We’re not here to get you laid. We’re here to catch a vampire.”

Dean pouts again.

“Well, I’m not going first.”

“We can’t put Cas on first.”

“Cas goes on first, or I don’t go on at all.”

“Fine! I’ll go tell him!”

Dean snorts under his breath, still can’t believe Sam is being such a dick about this. I mean, really. Cas might not seem the most suave, but he’s not so clueless that he’ll ruin everything. Dean bets he’s really good at this sort of thing. He just needs his opportunity to shine, and, like the good friend he is, Dean is giving it to him.

Jeez.

 

*

 

Cas shuffles to the front of the stage wearing a long, flowing thing that looks like a combination between a toga and the wrapping on an Egyptian mummy. He’s also sporting  knee high boots (although at the moment all you can see is the toes poking out from under the cloth), angel wings, and a tinsel halo that’s charmingly too big for him, the wire base sitting skewed on his head.

The music that’s playing is slow and sultry, but Cas resolutely refuses to move in time with it, coughing nervously and smiling awkwardly out into the crowd, where Dean is sitting and watching. Platonically, like a best bro friend cheering on his other best bro friend. No homo etcetcetc.

Well, Dean was watching. He isn’t anymore. He’s got his head in his hands and he’s praying that Cas gets his fucking act together and they don’t end up kicked out of this place on their asses, cover blown and pride in shreds. Mainly because it’d mean Sam was right, and he can’t stand Sam being right.

He looks out from between his fingers, and sees Cas’s nervous grin suddenly turn predatory and sultry, and hot fucking damn.

Cas takes a strip of the white fabric covering him, starts to unravel it, ever so slowly, in time to the music now.

Dean perks up. Maybe they will get through this god damn fucking night unscathed.

Cas starts off slow, teasing, anticipatory, but the music starts to build, get faster and faster, and more and more of the toga thing comes up – and jesus he must have been trussed up real fucking good because they’re barely seeing skin  and it seems like there’s miles of fabric pooled around his feet.

Cas is spinning now, still whipping off his layers and starting to reveal his runners thighs and toned arms and hot damn Dean has a platonic best friend boner and this is looking like a good fucking night.

And then the shit hits the fan.

Cas’s halo falls down, the thin, wire headband slipping around his neck and the tinsel halo itself into his eyes. He stumbles, trips and makes a choking noise as the toga gets caught on the wire, yanks it tight around his neck as he falls to the ground.

Dean springs to his feet, launches over, but there’s something really wrong. Cas’s face is bulging and he’s writhing, gasping faintly.

In a fit of panic Dean yanks at the wire, but that just pulls it tighter.

Cas’s hand finds Dean’s cheek, brushes against it.

He whispers something, and Dean can’t hear it, leans in closer and in doing so misses any chance he might have had of rescuing Cas.

“Avenge me.” Cas whispers, as though he hasn’t just garrotted himself with his own clumsiness, but been actually murdered, and then his hand drops to the floor and his eyes close.

“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” Dean screams at the ceiling, still not bothering to try and rescue Cas instead of being a melodramatic little shit.

He rests his face against Cas’s chest, starts to cry, great, unmanly, undignified tears of—

“Mish!” Jensen yells, slapping him on the head with the back of his hand.

“What?” Misha looks up at him, with that dumb smile that he thinks is innocent but is literally fooling no-one.

“What the fuck happened to you setting the scene for a sexy roleplay?”

“It was sexy.” Misha replies, totally deadpan. “There was stripping.”

“You killed yourself!”

“No, I killed Cas. And _I_ didn’t kill him; he died in a terribly tragic accident.”

“Just,” Jensen blows out an exasperated breath, “why?”

“You look so devastatingly handsome when you cry.”

“What is wrong with you?!”

“Nothing you don’t love.”

Jensen snorts, doesn’t disagree.

Misha cracks up laughing, and Jensen is forced to whack him again.

“We are never roleplaying again.”

“Never?”

“No!”

“Not even as cowboys, riding rough across the desert expanse by day, riding each other rough by night?”

“Yeah, until I dunno, I get my cock bitten off by a viper.”

Misha smiles, pets at Jensen’s crotch fondly.

“I’d never do that to your cock.”

Jensen doesn’t know whether he wants to laugh, cry, or fucking gag Misha.

He chooses to do the latter, with his tongue.

**Author's Note:**

> SURPRISE it was cockles all along, but I don't tag spoilers because THEN IT WOULDN'T BE A SURPRISE WOULD IT. Basic storytelling guys JEEZ. 
> 
> You can find me on tumblr at [Radidbinbadger](http://rabidbinbadger.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Written for the [Spn Coldest Hits challenge](http://spncoldesthits.tumblr.com/)


End file.
